There was death for the asking in the sweet, saturated air, catalpas in flower and green garden hair of wisteria. Baskets hanging heavy with Love Lies Bleeding, strangling tendrils enfolding themselves around mold and moss covered pillars. Humid and dank, the air grew headier with each step, the door disappearing in the bottle green light. A pandemonium sky, clouds sprinting frenetically overhead, but in the garden all was hushed, save for the wasp bouncing against the window, stabbing at the sun, grabbing for the grass, the trees. This was her dominion; chipped clay pots, bins of compost, decayed to perfection, seedling trays, and toads finding refuge under darkened benches.
Sad, she shot summer until bitter autumn, clothed in rags and finery moved in and set up light housekeeping in her core. The Maples, wretched and angry, reached into her eyes and yanked tears to water their dry and dusty roots, purple veined leaves mirroring the lingering welt on her throat. “If I live like that storm,” she whispered in her evening of despondency, “I will become unvarnished wood.” She reached for the rotting bench to steady her weakness and longing. As night fell, she wrapped a wool cloak around her shoulders and walked the stony avenue to his grave and danced lightly upon it in the moonless dark and returning late, she only knew it was raining by the pock marks on the lake.
© Jilly’s 2016